What About The Tournament?
by Synbou
Summary: Don might miss an important baseball tournament.


Disclaimer: Nothing about Numb3rs belongs to me.

**_A/N: Here's my latest project. The story is NOT BETA-ed, but I as usual I'm posting it because it helps me move forward. I also have this thing about seeing the number of NUMB3RS fics growing, these days. So here it is to you all who are inspired by this great show!_**

**Title: What about the Tournament?**

**Chapter 1: Eearly one Morning.  
**

**Summary: 16-years old Don gets sick.**

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Frustrated, sixteen year-old Don Eppes closed his Math textbook. He gave a quick look at his wristwatch. It was ten to eight in the morning already. He felt exhausted. The light was hurting his eyes despite his shades. Maybe he should have settled at the library instead of his usual picnic table by the old tree. He passed a hand over his face and neck. The chlorine smell of the pool was still clinging to his skin despite a quick shower after his swimming lesson. The odour was as annoying as the daylight, the growing sounds of people arriving at school, and of the burning sensation down his throat. Worse, he was starting to have a headache. _Yeah, the library would have been a better choice_. Thing was, Don usually preferred the outdoors. Besides, the library was more his younger brother's hiding spot.

Charlie – _lucky little brat_ – he would have had the chance to sleep in this morning. Mom would only drop him off at school for eight twenty on her way to work. Don felt a twinge of resentment towards his younger brother – _again_. Quickly, he tossed the feeling aside. It was better not to go there.

For the fiftieth time, Don wondered why he had bothered to get up today. He was feeling like crap. He had not succeeded in getting any correct answer on his Math assignment. Even worse, he had performed poorly during his lifeguard class earlier – almost requiring that one of his classmates pulled him out of the water before he drowned. _ That_ _would have been a kicker_. He could imagine the headline on the local evening newspaper: _Student drown during a lifeguard lesson… _

Then, for a few seconds, he wished he had drowned. He would not have had to write his Math exam in the afternoon. Math brought up another resenting feeling towards Charlie – his Math genius brother. The little brat could not even explain squat about Math even if his life depended on it. _What if the life at stake was his brother's?_ No, Charlie did not care about Don. Not anymore. Not since he had discovered the wonderful and fascinating world of Math. Not since he had stolen away all of their parents' attention.

_Mom and Dad… _

Don missed them. Yet, it could not be around them anymore. All they did was fight. Fight about his poor grades in school, his detention time, the people he was hanging with, his clothing style, his earring, the little beard he had grown out. They were even fitting over the things he ate! _Why could he not be more like Charlie?_ Because his younger brother would never be able to baby-sit a kid as screwed up as Charlie!

Yeah, baby-sit… As long as Don could baby-sit, he was useful. His mother had such a way to ask him to do it too that Don had given up that fight a long time ago.

_Mom…_ Would she ever pass some time alone with him ever again?

Sorrow threatened to overwhelm him. _What was wrong with him?_ With all his might, he pushed the feeling away. He was _sixteen_, he chided himself. He was not about to cry for his mother – especially not in the middle of the school yard!

Angry with himself, Don gathered his stuff. His thoughts reverted back to the early morning. He had been up and about since five thirty. There was no going back to bed now. Besides, he could not afford to. He had to do something about his failed Math assignment in order to pass today's exam. His baseball coach had warned him that if he did not improve his grades, he would not make the ball tournament. There was _no way_ Don Eppes would miss the ball tournament. He had what it took to make it to the pros – so his coaches and his dad kept saying. Entering in the school building, he decided to go see if his Math teacher was available.

"Mrs. McGuire," he called, venturing two feet into the teacher's lounge. "Would you have a few minutes for me?"

His grade 10 Math teacher looked away from the conversation she was having with Don's English instructor, Mr. Kane. "You're all right, Don? You sound terrible."

"I'm fine, thanks. Just a sore throat, that's all" he told her, self-conscious of his teachers seizing him up. Actually, he was probably coming down with a bad cold. He was aching all over by now. He cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment. "I've got a problem with yesterdays' assignment. I've done all the exercises and I never get the right answers."

"How do you know you're not getting the right answers?"

"Charlie," he supplied.

"Of course," Mrs McGuire granted as if she should not have bothered to ask. "And Charlie didn't tell you what you were doing wrong?"

"He did, but as usual I didn't get anything he said." Don turned his head and coughed before continuing. "Charlie's good at finding answers, but when it comes to explaining he's lousy at it. Me, I'm just lousy at Math."

"Don, you're not lousy at Math. You're even better than average," Mrs. McGuire assured him. "Though, I guess I would be feeling lousy too if I was to compare myself with your younger brother – which I try not to do. It's bad for my ego."

Don felt compelled to return her smile. Dare he acknowledge that he loved his Math teacher? Not only was she beautiful, she was smart, funny and always seemed to understand him. He adored her even more when she invited him to sit at their table. He hoped it did not show how relieved he was to be sitting down. He felt so tired lately, today, most of all.

Mrs. McGuire straightened herself in her seat. "Let's see this assignment, shall we?"

Don opened his notebook to the right page and handed it over to his teacher.

"You know, Don," Mr. Kane began while Mrs McGuire was reviewing his assignment. "Your brother might be a genius at Math and sciences, but when it comes to English you are definitely the genius of the two."

"Don't I know it? Chuck can't write anything right other than Math symbols," Don agreed, trying not to sound like a strangled cat. "I passed most of last night helping him proof his History essay. Usually, Mom or Dad helps him while I do my own homework, but they had a meeting last night. "

"And when did you do your Math assignment?" asked Mrs McGuire asked, eyes still on the page.

"I started it after my ball practice yesterday afternoon and finished it before practice this morning," Don said, scared that the admission would put him in trouble.

"You had a baseball practice this morning?" Mr. Kane inquired, aware that it was barely eight in the morning.

"Oh no, swimming," Don croaked out. "I'm updating my lifeguard certificate."

"That might explain why you looked so tired and made this many small mistakes," Mrs. McGuire said, looking up at him. Don felt his shoulders slump. He bit his lower lip, suddenly feeling stupid. He was unable to maintain eye contact with Mrs. McGuire. "Don, you're logic is correct. You clearly understood the formulas, but you did little mistakes like rotating numbers all over." Don finally met his teacher's gaze, confused. "Kiddo, you're exhausted," she told him. She reached for his forehead with the back of her hand. "And you're clearly ill. I'm surprise your parents let you out of bed this morning."

"We didn't see each other. I left before they got up. I had to be at the pool for six thirty," Don defended with a broken voice.

"It's a miracle you did not drown in that pool," Mr. Kane stated.

_If he only knew…._

"He's drowning, now," Mrs. McGuire observed. The two teachers nodded to each other in a silent agreement. "Gather your stuff, Don. We're sending you home."

He risked a painful swallow. "But there's a Math exam this afternoon," He objected.

"I'm not letting you write an exam in this condition. That wouldn't be fair to you," Mrs. McGuire told him. She met his gaze. "Don't go thinking that we haven't notice that you've been pushing yourself in order to improve your grades, lately."

"You have?" Don asked.

"Of course, we have," Mr. Kane replied. "Your assignments are done on time. You have got better grades over all. And shall I mention, less detention time?"

Don nodded. He felt more relieved than he cared to admit. "Coach said I wouldn't make the tournament if I didn't smart up."

"Coach was right," agreed Mrs. McGuire. "But you won't make it either if you drive yourself into the ground. So, come on, Sport" she invited him as she stood up. "We'll go call your parents and inform the principal's office."

"But I can't – I can't go," he said. Not that he wanted to. The idea of going back to bed sounded like music to his ears. "I've got to stay."

"Don, surely one of your parents can come over and pick you up," his Math teacher argued.

"You don't understand," he told her. "Chuck – I've got to say to look out for Charlie. The other kids pick on him."

"Well, Charlie is going to have to man-up, today," Mr. Kane said. Don looked back at him, alarmed. _This guy did not know his little brother like he did_. "Don, Charlie is going to be all right. We are going to make sure of that, I promise. I can even keep him busy for you," his English teacher told him with a wink.

Don smiled. "That'd be good."

"That _would_ be good," Mr. Kane corrected him. "And it would be my pleasure. Now, go."

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"Mom…" Don protested as he recoiled from her touch.

Mother and son were sitting side by side in the waiting room of the local medical clinic. Her eldest son's embarrassment at her display of affection had Margaret Mann shy away from his forehead. Instead, she brought her hand down to his tight. She desperately needed to let him know – _let him feel_ – that she was there for him, for both their sakes.

"Humour your mother, will you?" she said. "Besides, a little comfort won't break your I-don't-need-my-mother-no-more-image, Tough Guy. Trust me."

Don gave her a timid smile. She felt ashamed for the culpability she saw flash through his tired dark eyes. Of course Don would be sensitive enough to pick up on her anguish and underlying guilt. At sixteen, her once-upon-a-time-affectionate-and-expressive firstborn was now a distant, independent, and as closed as a clam teenager. That said, Don was still as perceptive as ever. If only he shared his feelings with her as he once did at a younger age. _Why could he not come to me or his father and tell us that he was sick? _

The moment, Margaret had received Mrs. McGuire's call, informing her that Don was ill and needed to go home. She had hurried her youngest son to get ready and quickly made arrangements to take the rest of the day off. She had found Don waiting for her at the principle's office. Her heart at almost skip a beat when she realized how sick her son looked.

As for any other parent, a sick child was one of the hardest things Margaret could ever face. She bit back tears, frustrated once again by the growing communication issues Alan and she were having with Don. All their friends were reminding them that such difficulties were typical of teenage hood, but Margaret suspected – _no she knew_ – there're was a lot more at play, especially when she was factoring Charlie into the equation. Truth be told, she could not blame Don for being independent. She was expecting it of him. She _needed_ him to be.

_Still… _

"Don, I know we have been arguing a lot lately about little things, but you do know that you can always come to your father and me for anything, right?"

"Mom-" he croaked, his protest dying with his voice.

"Do you?" She insisted.

He nodded. "Yeah."

"There's nothing wrong with that, you know. Your dad and I still talk to our parents when we need something. Parents have experience. Aging has to count for something…"

"Mom, don't feel bad," he whispered. "I understand. I don't want you to worry about me. You worry enough."

"That's kind of you, Sweetie," she said, touched. "But I'm your mother; I'm always going to worry about you. It's my prerogative as a parent. That said, it would be helpful if I was to worry about the right things. For that, we need to be able to talk to each other."

Don simply nodded his agreement. She could tell he wanted it too, but was unsure and anxious about it.

"I'm proud of you, Young Man," she told him with a soft smile.

"Thanks."

They both sat in silence for a few minutes before she dared ask her next question. "I don't suppose you're going to allow me to come in the exam room with you?"

Don did nothing less than glare at her.

"Thought so," she mumbled.

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"Hi Sweetheart," Alan greeted his wife as he joined her and Charlie in dinning room. "Charlie, Son, how was school?"

"Okay, I guess. Mr. Kane gave me a very special book to read. It's about the construction of pyramids in Egypt and the science behind it. I don't even have to write an essay about the book. He just asked me to read it."

"That was nice of him," Alan commented. He turned to Margaret. "How's Donnie?"

"He's been better. Don has mono," Margaret informed her husband.

"Ah, the infamous kissing disease, typical enough of his age," said Alan, knowingly. "How many girls do you think our Donnie has kissed so far?"

"He got this disease by kissing girls?" Charlie asked, looking up from his chemistry homework. "Gross!"

"Trust me, when you'll get to his age, you'll want to kiss girls, too," his father told him.

"No way!" Charlie objected.

"I guess we have a typical eleven-year old, after all," Alan told his wife.

Margaret returned her smile, before becoming serious again. "Charlie, people call mono the 'kissing disease' because the virus can be transmitted through saliva. But, there're other ways to catch the virus, such as sharing a straw or being too close to someone infected as he or she coughs."

"So if I stay away from him, the probability of me being infected by the disease too decreases."

"That's right, Charlie," agreed Margaret. "The thing is, though, you may already be infected and not have any symptoms. That's quite common at your age. For the moment, we're going to assume that you haven't been exposed and be careful. Okay?"

"Okay."

Margaret returned her attention towards Alan. "The doctor said that Donnie's spleen and liver are enlarged. So, he's not to do any sport nor heavy lifting for at least three weeks – could be more depending on how well he'll be doing."

"Three weeks without _any_ sport," Alan repeated. "Something tells me Donnie didn't take that very well."

"Surprisingly, he said it was _fine_," Margaret replied with a hint of sarcasm.

"Uh-hum… Any idea what the word _fine_ applies to, this time?" Alan asked perplexedly.

"I do and it worries me," she said. "He could use the rest. He's exhausted. Mrs. McGuire commented about the efforts he puts in both classes and his sports in order to make the tournament. She's afraid he might be burning himself out."

"Donnie has been working pretty hard. It would be a shame if he couldn't make the tournament," Alan added with disappointment. "Does he know?"

"I don't think he realized it, yet," Margaret replied. "That's why it's _fine_. Oh Alan, how come we didn't see that coming?" she asked with a pang of guilt.

Alan had a million of excuses he could have given to his wife in order to justify away their guilt, yet he had no real answer to offer. A silence, heavy with sadness and apprehension fell between them. It was broken moments later by Charlie's small voice:

"Don's going to miss the tournament?"

"He might, Son," Alan answered.

"But-but if he does, that will not improve his batting average," Charlie predicted.

Of course, their young Math genius would be concerned about Don's average as a baseball player. It was his own way to connect with his older brother. Sometimes, Alan and Margaret wished Charlie would know less about Math and more about empathy – the latter was more Don's strength. At least, it was something they could all teach Charlie – they hoped. "At the moment," Alan began gently. "We're more concerned about your brother's well being, both physically and mentally. We'll worry about his batting average later."

"Oh," said Charlie, a bit confused. "Okay."

"What else did the doctor said," Alan asked his wife.

"He said to expect boots of fever in late afternoon. It can come up pretty high. We can give him some Tylenol for it. Don also has a bad case of soar throat. We can help him relieve it with popsicles and ice. It's important that he rest and stay hydrated. We'll keep him at home for the rest of the week – at least, until his fever breaks and that he's well enough to go back to school."

"All right," concluded Alan. "I'll see which days I can take off in order to stay home with him."

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End of part 1.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed - Isa.

Summary: 16-years old Don gets sick.


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